the sun in the sky | gojo satoru ✔

what does a name mean

It was a breezy, sunny day when he asked the question. A few sakura petals flew into the room, landing softly on the tatami mats like a feather.

"You," He started, catching the young girl off guard. She was about to leave, but he had stopped her. When he addressed her directly, it scared her. It could mean something was wrong.

She tried to hide the fear. He had not caused her harm thus far. "Yes, Young master? Is there something you wish for?"

His paintbrush paused in his hand. Black ink bled the paper. When she had came in, the Young Master had been performing calligraphy.

She did not know what the lines meant, why they crossed in that certain way or why were shaped like so—but she found the strokes rather beautiful.

He placed his brush down. "Your name."

She did not understand. For no one had ever asked such a question towards her. No one cared to. She felt her face slightly twist into confusion, but she immediately ripped it off. Such a face would be impolite.

But her words were still just as confused, much to her stupidity. "I-I'm sorry?"

He was looking at her again. The young girl felt her cheek throb again. The ice pack she used this morning unfortunately, was not very effective. She tried to remember the glow of the room, how the light did twirls and flips on the boy's fair skin—she tried to remember the warmth of the moment.

But then, he looked slightly vexed. She snapped herself back to reality. His lips parted again:

"What is it. Your name."

He sounded irritated, but seemed to hold his tongue. "I assume you know what a name is." He then added.

She did. Of course she knew.

It still shocked her to her very core that he, the wielder of such great power—he, an heir to a noble house, would care enough to ask the name of a mere maid. He shouldn't care.

He shouldn't need to.

What surprised her too, was the fact that she did not feel much fear, but instead, she felt upset. She could not give the Young master a satisfactory answer, or any answer she assumed he wanted.

"I am sorry, Young master." She looked down at her clenched fists that laid on top of her folded knees. Her knuckles were white.

She smiled, a sad smile. She felt compelled to, even though showing such emotion could cost her. "I do not have one."

A bitter silence followed after. The young girl felt herself tense up, every muscle in her small frame stiffen. Should she leave? Or should she wait for his command? Would it be rude to even wait?

But he was merciful. He picked up his paintbrush again, resuming his delicate strokes of black. "How disappointing."

She unknowingly faltered.

"You may leave now."

It left a gut-wrenching feeling in her chest.